


Salutary

by unsettled



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, Possessive Behavior, Scent Marking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-12
Updated: 2017-01-12
Packaged: 2018-09-17 01:49:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,062
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9298901
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unsettled/pseuds/unsettled
Summary: Even Graves makes mistakes.





	

It's stupid. 

It's incredibly stupid, the sort of dangerous flaw that he'd condemn in any of his aurors. A completely unnecessary risk – should anyone else approach Credence, scent him, Credence is as good as obliviated. Should they recognizes Graves' scent, _he_ is demoted, at the very least, if not stripped of his wand. His scent, on a no-maj? His scent, not just on, but mingled with Credence's, layered thick and heady, screaming challenge at any who might think to claim him? He'd never hear the end of it, a perfect example to offer up to the law. 

More, even, it's pointless. The no-maj's can't sense it, can't be warned off. Even Credence can't tell, can't smell it on himself, has no understanding of what it means when Graves touches him like that, that it means anything beyond affection and comfort. He understands kisses, understands lust and passion, and want – how he understands want – but how would he know to connect those things, rousing and wild and urgent, with simple touches? How would he know what it means for Graves to press his wrists to his neck, to know that sort of marking is more than a fling, an impermanent arrangement in some back alley? 

He wouldn't. 

It's stupid, it's dangerous, and its intoxicating beyond belief. He knows these things, and still it cannot stop him from marking Credence, wrists pressed against his neck, the sensitive glans buried there, smearing it until he is coated with musk, twining his heavy, earthen scent with the metallic bite of Credence's, a blatant possession. Credence is simply happy to be touched, to be wanted at all, and Graves cannot quite bring himself to explain the promise he's made, the promise he may not be able to keep. 

He wonders, later, if that is what led Grindelwald to Credence, if he doomed him to being more than simply another of Graves' sources. No, doesn't wonder; there's no way Grindelwald could have caught that scent and not known, not seen the use it could have. No more than he could have resisted the temptation to play, to amuse himself with both of them. 

Still, clinging to wondering instead of acknowledging what he's brought down on Credence is one of the few things that keeps him alive, so he builds a small space in his mind where Grindelwald never finds Credence. 

When they find him, later, very nearly in pieces, none of his aurors remark on how he smells. Not a word is said about the bitter, chalky ash scent laid on him, not paired with his own but ground in, obliterating it, not a trace of Credence left to him. He sees the glances, nervous, suspicious, at where he is marked, how extensively. How completely, the way long time bonded pairs are, the sort of thing you can't fake, but no one says anything. 

They don't say anything about how Credence smelled either. They don't say anything at all about Credence. He has to read about it to find out the circumstances of Grindelwald's capture, to find out the way Credence- 

Tina tells him, one day, tight lipped and angry. “He smelled like you,” she says. “He didn't smell any different. You're not supposed to be able to hide that, there aren't spells that work for that.” Graves gives her a look. _Obviously,_ he almost says, _there are_. 

“Credence smelled like you too,” she says. “I mean, him. He smelled like you and Credence smelled like...” she trails off, and he isn't sure if she's purposely not making the connection or not. 

The thought of his scent gone, wiped from Credence as though it never was, makes him furious. 

The reality, several months later, is even worse. 

Grindelwald's scent is all over him, the stench of it completely overwhelming anything else, no trace of Graves', barely even a flicker of Credence's, honed and brittle as it's become. It's thick, pooled beneath his skin in places Graves never had even the chance to touch, much less mark, and the rage he feels burns so high. 

Credence looks at him, eyes hazed over – not white, but not clear either – looks at him, his body diffused at the edges. “You smell different,” he says, flat, and then, a hesitation. Confusion. 

“You smell better,” he says, eyes narrowed. 

“Credence,” Graves says, hungry, wanting, his mouth dry. “What do you smell?”

He steps closer, closer, still wary. Circles Graves' wrist with his fingers and brings it up, brushing against his lips, and inhales, deep, holding in his breath. “You smell like him,” he says, sharply.

“So do you,” Graves says. Credence's eyes narrow. He scents again, tongue darting out, the barest damp flicker at Graves' skin, and Graves shudders, feels his glans flush, the scent rising from them, thick, still tainted. 

Credence hisses as it hits him, blinks, and shivers. “You smell _right_ , he whispers, and then, again, but angry, possessive, hand tightening, “You smell like him.”

“Then fix it,” Graves breathes, everything still for a long moment, watching the ebb and flow of the edges of Credence's form, his breath hot on Graves' wrist. 

Still, until Credence pulls, yanks Graves' arm forward until his wrist is once again pressed against Credence's neck, fingers curled in his hair, finally, finally, their scents mingling, right, drowning out the high pitch of Grindelwald's stench, slotting together as they had before. Graves grabs at Credence's neck with his other hand, desperate to scrub the remains of that poison off him, and Credence lunges forward, pressed against, him, breathing hotly right against the glans of his neck. He shudders, tilts his head to the side as Credence's hands clutch at his waist, grasping at his shirt and yanking. 

“He tried to take you from me,” Credence murmurs, in a tone Graves has never heard from him, a tone that makes him swallow hard. “He can't take you,” Credence says, fingers sliding between rumpled fabric until skin touches skin, his palm flat against Graves' hipbone, wrist pressed to spot just above it, where Grindelwald had bitten his scent in, tied with blood and spit. 

“I won't let him have you,” Credence hisses, sinking his teeth into the fevered glans of Graves' neck, marking him, claiming him, as irrevocably as Graves had ever marked him.

Graves jerks, and cries out, pinned and surrounded by Credence's seething darkness, and believes.


End file.
